


Grown a Country Apart

by AlexSimon



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, Fanfiction of Fanfiction, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2016-02-11
Packaged: 2018-05-19 15:53:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5973070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexSimon/pseuds/AlexSimon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I wrote Owl By Night some poems about the Johns' relationship in her World War Two AU "The Art of Ungentlemanly Warfare" and she was kind enough to say they weren't terrible, so I thought I'd post them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grown a Country Apart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Owl_by_Night](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Owl_by_Night/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Art of Ungentlemanly Warfare](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5264063) by [Owl_by_Night](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Owl_by_Night/pseuds/Owl_by_Night). 



> Not sure if people would read poetry, but if you do, I hope you enjoy.  
> (A few are are sexy!)

**How You Know Him**

A line of clothes,

largely unchanged

since they came 

to stay on his half of 

of the closet 

but for a softening, 

a wearing down 

with each time 

they are hung 

on his body, 

and later washed 

and put back 

to be taken down 

when he dresses 

before dawn. 

You know him by

an odd button on 

his favorite shirt,

different 

from the others,

too large 

and more brown 

than black,

sewn on a hurry and 

he is as familiar as

the occasional mended hem, 

done before 

he knows it has come loose.

You know him 

by the uneven terrain

of a scar on his shoulder 

where your head lies 

and he knows you 

in turn 

by the gray at your temples

that will spread 

until is the color 

of your hair. 

He knows you also 

by the dent in 

the front fender the car,

put there when he taught 

you to drive 

shortly after you turned 

thirty four

and you know him 

by the way he writes 

your name 

with either of his 

hands 

and you do not 

need to be told 

if it was left or right 

he used on a note 

he left 

or on the back 

of a picture

because that 

is how you know him. 

The two of you

are known together by

names that are mirrors 

of each other,

said in accents 

grown a country apart.

 

 

**King and County**

You would never tell him 

how much you worry

about his hair; 

how often you think

of what he might look 

like with it cut short 

and how long it might 

take to grow back  


when all of this is over.  


His dark hair  


disappearing into  


the collar of his coat,  


his hair wet after a bath  


dripping onto his bare shoulder  


or onto yours  


if he kissed you before  


he dressed,  


his hair half dried  


cold between your fingers;  


these are things  


you will have to learn  


to live without.  


He said as well that he  


is clean shaven now  


and England  


does not care  


that you had forgotten-  


you had completely forgotten-  


in the new quiet of your life  


doing as one the work of two,  


until you read that line  


in his last letter  


that when he kissed you  


at the door,  


the morning still dark,  


that his rough face against yours  


was another thing  


you would be asked to give.  


England does not care that  


you have never seen his face  


smoothed by a razor  


or that you have let  


more than one mug of weak tea  


grow cold as you imagined it.  


There are some things though  


that will always be yours;  


the callouses on his fingers,  


the way they feel against your skin,  


how he smells at the end of a day;  


cigarette smoke  


and dirt.  


They cannot take  


the way he said your name  


the first time you came together  


to this bed  


where you like awake  


and think about short hair  


and a face you will have to get  


to know again  


when he returns home.  


Those things  


they will have no choice but  


to leave you,  


that and the way he writes  


the same four letters for his name at  


the bottom of his letters,  


and for yours at the top of them  


but makes you hear  


his voice when you read  


how writes yours. 

 

 

 

**Leave**  


You thought you had  


prepared to have him home  


and you thought you had prepared  


for the sling that held  


his right arm in place  


and for the scar  


spread across his shoulder  


and down into the dark hair  


of his chest  


and to have him clutch you at the door,  


his face in your hair.  


You had forgotten  


that he would not smell the same  


and this first embrace  


only the smell of army soap,  


the feel of the bare back of his neck  


it is like you hold  


a different man  


until you breathe and bury your face  


in his shirt  


and find the smell of his cigarettes.  


You said that you would  


not cry in front of him  


and so you wait until he has  


gone to bed  


and you stand at the sink  


the dishes from your first meal  


in your soapy hands  


and a plate nearly slips  


but you catch it as it falls  


seconds before it hits the floor  


and you are grateful  


clutching it to your chest  


that there was no noise to wake him. 

 

 

 

 

**Many New Patterns**  


You undress quietly in the dark;  


keeping watch on his face  


as you slip off your shirt, your sweater  


and trousers and hang them  


next to his uniform.  


You do not know  


if it is the cold  


when you pull the sheets back  


and expose the smallest bit of  


his unclothed body,  


the small noise of the mattress  


when you lower yourself onto it  


or maybe  


your presence  


in the bed  


but you slide in next to him  


and his eyes open  


and he reaches for you.  


You have found them again,  


the callouses on his fingers  


against your stomach first  


and he flattens his palm  


over your navel  


before it slides to  


past your hip bone.  


This kiss to your jawline  


is smooth  


but it is his still after all.  


You move your face  


so that he can reach your mouth  


with his  


and the kiss tastes like him  


now that he is home;  


dinner tea  


and the cigarette he had  


before you sent him to bed.  


You let him slip your clothes  


off and your skin meets again  


and you relearn  


the coming together quickly  


and you relearn how body feels;  


thinner now,  


his ribs and your fingers  


make a pattern  


of skin and bones  


when you put your hand on his chest  


and how it looks  


with new scar  


at your eye level  


when you put your head on his chest  


to sleep this first night home.

**Warm**

It is the best sleep 

you have had in months, 

his breath in your ear 

as your eyes close,

his body under yours 

his hand on your back.

His skin and hair 

smell still of army issue soap

trying to fade 

and your last thought 

before sleep was where 

he was this time yesterday 

and the day before that, 

the place where he put 

on his uniform 

and brushed his hair 

before coming home to you.

You are warm. 

You cannot remember

for months now 

being warm 

when you come to bed,

but your bodies together 

have worked the cold away. 

When you wake,

he is not there. 

You see first his pillow 

the dent his head made in sleep 

still there 

and you turn on your back. 

Your clothes are still hung 

together 

twisting,

empty sleeves touch. 

You hear footsteps 

and he is in the doorway, 

worn trousers, 

looser on him 

than you remember, 

his belt tighter,

his chest bare, 

two mugs of tea in his hands. 

He gets back into bed 

with them

putting one into your hands 

as he leans against you 

and slips a hand around 

your waist. 

It is you who pulls the covers 

over both of your legs 

and underneath 

your feet cross at the ankles 

and you are not,

this morning,

cold.


End file.
